Long Chunky Poems
Long Chunky Poems. Below are the most popular long Chunky by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chunky poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
I was given the challenge
Well in truth it was a bet
And the bet was to get a date
With Prudence the librarian
Whose coldness was legend
It would be a tall order
But I picked up the gauntlet
And headed to the library
I walked up to the desk
And there she stood
She was short in stature
But imposing nonetheless
Her countenance was severe
Thick chestnut hair
Pulled back off severely off her face
Her make up would best be described
As minimalist
And she peered at me
Over thick framed spectacles
She wore a chunky beige sweater
Two sizes too big which hid her shape
And a dark pleated skirt, knee length
Over thick black wool tights
And the not unattractive legs
Terminated into sensible shoes
I tried small talk
But she was not receptive
Her demeanor was positively frosty
Every enquiry she batted back to me in the negative
But despite everything
There was something about her that I liked
Something intangible
curiously she was not my type
in any way, but still there was something
So I decided to persevere
But because I wanted to
Not because I had to
So firstly I paid off on the bet
I wasn’t doing it for a stupid bet
But because of that intangible something
An itch I couldn’t scratch kind of thing
Realizing small talk would get me nowhere
I thought I would try a different tack
And converse with her on her own terms
I had to engage her intellect
So each day I would go to the library
And ask her to recommend a book
Which we could then discuss each day
And each day she thawed a little
Then I posed her questions,
History, Geography, the arts
I found her to be both knowledgeable and interesting
And I found that I was becoming interested
In the subjects we were discussing
And looked forward to our time together
As each day she thawed a little more
I wanted to have more
Than just the few precious hours at the library
But I didn’t want to undo what I had achieved
Upset the status quo
And refrigerate her again
Then at the end of one particular day
Prudence asked me
“Would you like to go for a coffee?”
I was speechless but nodded in the affirmative
Later she told me
She fell for me because I engaged her mind
And valued her for what was between her ears
And not what was between her legs
Or inside her sweater
Form:
Origami
Sitting quietly chatting sipping
fragrant coffee steaming.
Mind eyes mind's eye, all independently wandering
'let slip' reins dangling.
Peace, as they individually pursue
their individual endings.
Activity, a quorum and a ladder
gather them together,
a 'sale' sign erected in a bookshop window.
Initially eyes observe a dim and watery reflection,
then through glass in feature place
big block letters hold sway,
blue and bold they say,
in a chunky, awkward way,
“ORIGAMI”
Prompted by irony wryness emerges
and as the chosen foreman
collars and kicks thought into gear.
Now, eyes mind and mind's eye
harnessed again do process
the title which represents so much
then the image under the letters.
A space shuttle! In colour in flight,
all in folded paper.
with what do I associate
the pursuit that's here engendered
by word so blue and bold,
in chunky blocks presented?
convey the serene
emulate peace and beauty
quest for perfection
sparse and delicate
nature peeks from artistry
structure and balance
patient creation
thought and silence, reflection
meditation, poise
expressing oneness
shown in harmonious folds
homage and respect
So where lies irony which prompted wryness to action?
A matter of perspective pure for
the thing in living colour flight,
proud beneath the title
sends my thoughts off wandering
down roads altogether different
to quiet contemplation
a space shuttle is excitement!
Noise smoke and fire, risk!
technology subduing nature.
The very atoms screaming, harnessed
in destructive chemical reaction,
to force a cargo up and away
past enveloping atmosphere and gravity,
the protective embrace
of good old mother earth.
Man stands astride the world,
over his conquered foes!
The fish and birds and living things
that move upon the ground.
Apparatus held aloft and waved
science triumphantly brandished!
Gleaming instruments the anathema to
the pollution which has spawned them.
on the cover behind the glass
beneath the sale sign,
Eastern and Western approaches both,
eagerly presented defined,
a polyglutenous combination
of idea-medium-form,
designed to render artistic thought
mere technical reality.
©T.Arnold
Whilst sitting on the Launch Pad
They await the final countdown
Their rocket – called TAKE 5, begins to shudder
The Captain is well known, and called BUTTERFINGER Boris
The other crew are MIKE and IKE and a female they call Doris
Rising with a roar like thunder
The MILKY WAY GALAXY to their left
Igniting like a Rocket at a Guy Fawkes celebration
They travel through the atmospheres and up into the stratospheres
The crew men on the Mother ship are called THREE MUSKETEERS
As they approach the Harvest Moon
A wondrous sight for all to see
The ship positions carefully, preparing to touch down
The Moon looks like a Christmas bauble dangling from the skies
Such a WHOOPER – it’s humongous, they really can’t believe their eyes
Landing with a bump and beginning to alight
They step upon this waterless and dusty satellite
There are SNO- CAPS for to climb, with such a steep incline
Great MOUNDS of debris all around that block their route ahead
But truthfully the crew would like to be at home, instead
As they explore the Moon once more
They stumble upon a strange creature
A little Green Man, who is very obese
Announcing himself with a sweeping bow, as Mr WATCHAMACALLIT
He’s training to run a Moon MARATHON, but he needs to get fitter to win it
The crew they finished all their chores
Boarding the Mother Ship they fasten her doors
Lift off is smooth, as they drift and float, gliding back into space
But hearing a strange voice nearby, whispering "Are those goodies for me"
They discover Mr W, on bended knees, embarking on a chocolate SPREE
But how on earth did he climb aboard, this CHUNKY little man
The crew in such a quandary and not knowing what to do
Should they turn back NOW AND LATER tell the reasons why
Or continue on their journey home, they did not want to die
Let’s take him home, cried Doris, he can live with me, I like his smile
But the twinkle in her eyes became a tear upon her cheek
She was lonely and emotional as she began to speak
She had fallen for the Moon Man in amongst the ballyhoo
Back home now and in wedded bliss, living on 5th AVENUE
How Sweet it is Competition, Sponsor Carol Connell, written on 29.09.18
Contest Brian's Choice D
Sponsor Brian Strand
Alright, let's get this crowd moving! (Adjusts microphone, smiles warmly) Yo, what's up, everybody? Let's get down to the nu sounds/
We're talking about a feeling, a vibe, a pulse/ You know, sometimes you hear a track and it's just... Wack, like wow, like spin luscious/
We're here for the deep melody/ the kind that just pops your mind apart/ Think sophisticated, a one martini jazz lounge bar… but chilled ya dig/
We're going on an extended house play, delving deep into the spin/ We're talking the echoes of dub music blending samples from James Brown, Donna Summer, Marvin Gaye, Lyn Collins, and Public Enemy/ seamlessly with the precision of minimal techno, bass loops, and synth loops/
intertwining, creating a tapestry of acid house, tech-house, classic techno, and jungle/ with every spin the DJ is a creative force a real artist, mixing tracks/ keepin’ the dance floor popin’ hot with bodies mixin’ till they drop/
Led lights, Laser, Strobe lights, all the vibrant colors for house club music weaving stories with sound and music/
And when a track hits you just right, you wanna rewind that track/ that wobble, that synth sound that gets you moving/
And the riddim… that beat that just won't quit/ Tonight's about ladies' night out, good vibes, and killer sounds/ picture bass loops and hot pants with synth loops intertwining, creating a tapestry of acid house, tech-house, classic techno, jungle/
We're keeping it tight, 125 to 127 BPM, paying homage to the classic house anthems that jackin' beats bounce off the walls all night/ It's about bumpin', kissin', feelin', fireworks, and having' fun/
that seductive, sexy body heat on the dance floor/ Yeah, we appreciate the roots hip-hop, RnB, soul, or funk/that chunky MPC-60 processed classic house drums drive the soul. We're talking DJ legends/ Think Peggy Gou, Steve Aoki, Alan Walker, Frankie Knuckles, Swedish House Mafia, Daft Punk, DJ SNEAK, and Masters at Work/
These are the spinnin’ DJs Masters at Work, the architects of the groove! let's lose ourselves in the sound, the times, the night into day/ forget the worries, and just move because tonight, we're celebrating the power of music!
Rules: Use at least 10 candy names from those listed below.
(30 candy names used)
Tomorrow we'll explore our Galaxy,
not just by space ship, but with 'space nerds' too!
We smarties, gifted Mike and Ike, with me,
will start our marathon and journey through
the Milky Way, where now and later we'll
be called 'Three Musketeers', the best, bar none,
to capture live a star burst with great zeal,
or see sno-caps on spheres far from the sun.
We bet each other a full 100 grand,
that we'll make history on this space spree;
discover whoppers, things we beforehand
knew zero 'bout those sites we couldn't see.
We're on a rocky road, since asteroids
can put an end to pay day...must take 5,
and watch our every move like paranoids,
not air heads, if we want to stay alive.
We'll take along some good Boston Baked Beans
with hot tamales and Ike's Charleston Chew,
a snack his mom bakes filled with good proteins;
and frozen Swedish fish will please us too.
Okay, we're off to Club 5th Avenue
for a good meal before we board for flight.
The Jolly Rancher hamburg, or Dots stew,
are lifesavers to please our appetite
before we're stuck with whatchamacallit
food, Mr. Goodbar, cook, packed up to go.
Goodbye for now...from sunlit to starlit,
please wish us mounds of luck from down below.
Sandra M. Haight
~5th Place~
Contest: 'Screwed XIX
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 01/02/2019
Candy Bar Words To Use (choose 10)
Dove, Chunky,100 Grand, Bar None, Galaxy, Marathon, Milky Way, Mounds, Mr. Good Bar, Pay Day, Rocky Road, Skor, Snickers, Take 5, Whatchamacallit, Zero, Skittles, Jolly Rancher, Starburst, Smarties, Three Musketeers, Tootsie Roll, Kit Kat, Air Heads, Boston Baked Beans, Charleston Chew, Dots, Hot Tamales, Lemonheads, Nerds, Slo Poke, Sno-Caps, Spree, O Henry, Whoppers, Swedish Fish, Butterfinger, Lifesavers, 5th Avenue, Mike and Ike, Heath, Goobers, Now and Later
*This poem is based on Type One Diabetes Mellitus, which I have had for 14 years. A
hyperglycaemic attack is when there is far too much sugar in your blood, and it causes
symptoms such as: Dehydration, erratic mood swings as well as intensified emotions,
intoxicated like nature, irrational thoughts and behaviour and impaired senses. If left
untreated the sugar poisons your bloodstream. The treatment for this is to inject insulin.
This poem includes a scenario of contact with a person when under this attack.*
Dry.
An incredible thirst from my stomach to
My mouth; I have
You in my squinting vision,
In my parched
Mind’s eye,
Burrowing under my deranged
Over indulgent heart.
Irritating
From deep within, chunky clumps of saccharine venom pollute my eyes,
Heart, thick tongue, lips,
So cracked
So horribly hot, so
Dry, utterly
Unbearable; I crave something and
You are convenient.
The monster, gorged with my glucose
Saturated blood, growls.
A guttural, phlegm filled noise.
I can hear lights in my raw
Sore, nebulous mind,
I can feel the aftertaste
Of your heartbreak.
Come to me, I’ll shout,
Rant without reason,
Cry steaming sugar, I’ll
Vent my hyperactive monster
Until I can rationalise you,
You meagre morsel whom my
Gluttonous thirst wants to Imbibe.
An excruciating need for you arises,
And in my poor, suffering, poisoned psyche I know, I know
I know that you are no more than an Oasis.
Bite back, relief as bitter medicine can fulfil my thirst,
My dehydration.
The cold clear liquid flowing through my arm, under my skin
Cooling this craving.
Dimming my desire.
Soon the supplementary solution soothes,
And I fall into a regular pattern.
My agony weakening;
The heartbreaking need proving to be a swarm of syrup killer bees;
My monster curling up in the spaces of my honey reserves,
Resting until the next unsteady, unstable
Burst for her awakening.
This illness, this condition, this fault in my system needs to be contained,
Or I fear that this itching insanity will cause me
To indulge in unwanted impulses,
To suffer cruel consequences,
To crack.
I won't ask one question,
just stab my pen in
and draw out the ink,
nothing will stop my flow
with crimson words
and chunky verses.
The night is dark
and streaked with grey.
Mist swirls around my ankles
like a lovers caress.
The moon is up there
but hidden
a true hunter's nite.
I walk my lands
enjoying the stillness,
ignoring the living,
they're just here to distract,
not worth my time.
Fog rolls in
like sheets of sheer fabric,
excluding me,
cuddling me.
I can feel the moisture
building up
on my skin,
slicking down my body hair,
smearing the blood
coating me.
It's trying to cleanse me
but it won't,
can't allow it,
I'm enjoying this too much.
This is just my brake
from the hunt,
a day to let myself
grow hollow.
I see a silhouette
of my castle up on the cliff
The grounds below me
are finally springing back.
My gnarled trees
flourishing,
the bushes are flowered
and spiky,
still a bit drab
but that's how i like it.
Licking the platelets
from my fingers
I keep moving
(just like my quill)
gliding across my parchment
filling in the blanks
with silence
too loud to hear,
too quiet to resist,
ripping into the foundation
hard enough to stop civilization,
making them wait
for what I have to say.
Ash falls before my eyes
as the masses wait,
they don't realize
I have nothing to say,
I'm just here to stir the cauldron
get the juices boiling.
Havoc is my creation,
my spawn,
my lover,
the taste that sits in the back
of my mouth.
Can you hear me
screaming in the back
of your head,
saying the things
you dare not think about
and leaving that
metallic taste
in your mouth
as your lip bleeds.
Newtonian physics say what goes up must come down
sorry not in the camp of horn tootin, high falutin clowns
justice serves only to rebuke you, not too astute of you
when youre bragging of genetics, a sword in the mouth can cut the lips
can gag you with double edged aplologetics
better watch out for backlash from observant critics,
self righteous attitudes, lukewarm civics
we can't bear the fruition of more bad fruit,
from bad apples with thin skins poisoning the youth
practice what you preach? ever hear of reciprocity for frontal lobotomy, lasiks surgery for radiocarotot omy
making things resentful what you tryin to prove? separation or hostility? Uncle Toms? up the Auntie, you are betting against the youth. Your blind vision seeing the world anew?
Now I know there's 31 flavors so many ways to taste, defeat, scoop up the malaise
don't rub it in the face when you're on top of the heap
make people suck on your cone of invincibility
bet it makes the taste of vanilla? A fetish treat, out of spite when all races got some fine honeys, and miss or Mrs BUTTERSWORTH mm hmm, you statistically will leave.
Leaves a bad taste, in the palate of the nationality. The grapes of wrath's depression made it's impression on all the people, so rinse your mouth, spit, repeat. Don't get drunk on your High C.
Too much high flying, smack talking, mainlining cult of gangsta personality
there aint no union in a phrase like "aint seen nothin like me"
No one is shocked a person of darker pigment can pass a football or do anything they set out to dream with heart in hard work. I think you better stick with a spork, instead of hotknifing that herb, rubbing that lambp of piper sheeptoslaughter jerk.
Catch more bees with honey, plus you can use that plastic spoon to dig your way out of the backstabbery,
but Hollywood Idols love their trophys
especially silver spooned ones, Campbell's Chunky for coddled athletes, who got nothin else to do
but compete for biggest cat in a cradle,
Golden icons on the silver screen.